by J. D. Robb
“Tell me what happened.”
Graciela relayed the events, set the scene as López had.
“Did you know Flores?”
“Yes, a little. He married my brother. I mean to say he officiated at the marriage of my brother. Father Flores also gave time to the youth center. I do the same, when I can, so I knew him from there.”
“Impressions?”
“Outgoing, interested. He seemed to relate to the street kids. I thought he’d probably been there and done that in his time.”
“Did he show any interest in any particular kid or kids?”
“Not that I noticed. But I didn’t run into him there often.”
“He ever move on you?”
“Move . . . No.” Graciela seemed shocked, then thoughtful. “No, no moves, no sense he considered it. And I never heard of him breaking that particular vow.”
“Would you have?”
“I don’t know, but my family—and there are a lot of them—is very involved in the church and this is our home parish. If he was going to move on someone, odds are the someone would’ve been related or connected to the Ortiz family. And family gossip runs pretty hot and strong. My aunt Rosa housekeeps for the rectory and not much gets by her.”
“Rosa Ortiz.”
“O’Donnell.” Graciela smiled. “We diversify. Is it homicide, Lieutenant?”
“Right now it’s suspicious death. You might talk to family members, get their impressions.”
“Nobody’s going to be talking about much else for days,” Graciela commented. “I’ll see what I can find out from those who knew him better than I did.”
“Okay. I’m going to have your great-grandfather released from the scene. You and your cousin should take that detail as soon as we’re clear.”
“We appreciate that.”
“Where’s your house?”
“I’m with the two-two-three, here in East Harlem.”
“How long on the job?”
“Almost two years. I thought I wanted to be a lawyer, changed my mind.”
Probably change it again, Eve thought. She just didn’t see a cop in those sizzling green eyes. “I’m going to get my partner, and we’ll clear the casket. If anything regarding Flores occurs to you, you can reach me at—”
“Cop Central,” Graciela finished. “I know.”
As Graciela clicked out on her funeral heels, Eve took one more scan of the crime scene. A lot of death for one small church, she mused. One in the coffin, one at the altar, and the one looking down on both from the really big cross.
One dies in his sleep after a long life, one dies fast—and the other gets spikes hammered through his hands and feet so they can hang him on a cross of wood.
God, priest, and the faithful, she thought. To her way of thinking, God got the worst deal of the three.
I can’t decide,” Peabody said as they walked around to the rectory, “if the statues and candles and colored glass are really pretty or really creepy.”
“Statues are too much like dolls, and dolls are creepy. You keep expecting them to blink. And the ones that smile, like this?” Eve kept her lips tight together as she curved them up. “You know they’ve got teeth in there. Big, sharp, shiny teeth.”
“I didn’t. But now I’ve got to worry about it.”
The small, unimposing building that housed the rectory had flowers in a pair of window boxes—and, Eve noted, minimum security. A standard lock, those flower-decked windows open to the spring air, and no palm plate, no security cameras.
She knocked, then stood on long legs in simple trousers, on feet planted in worn boots. The pale gray blazer she’d shrugged on that morning covered her weapon harness. The frisky May breeze fluttered through her short, brown hair. Like her legs, her eyes were long, a whiskey brown. They didn’t sizzle like Graciela’s—and were all cop.
The woman who answered had an explosion of dark curls tipped with gold around a pretty face. Her red-rimmed eyes scanned Eve, then Peabody. “I’m sorry, Father López is unable to take visitors today.”
“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.” Eve drew out her badge. “And Detective Peabody.”
“Yes, of course. Forgive me. Father said to expect you. Please come in.”
She stepped back. She wore a red carnation on the lapel of her black mourning suit—and both over a beautifully curved body. “It’s a terrible day for the parish, for my family. I’m Rosa O’Donnell. My grandfather . . . It was his funeral mass, you see. Father is in his office. He gave me this for you.” She held out an envelope. “You asked him to write out what Father Flores did today.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I’m to let Father know if you need to see him.”
“No need at this time. You can tell him that we’ve released Mr. Ortiz. My partner and I need to see Father Flores’s room.”
“I’ll show you upstairs.”
“You cook for the rectory,” Eve began as they moved from the tiny foyer to the stairs.
“Yes, and clean. Some of this, some of that. Three men, even priests, need someone to pick up after them.”
The stairs rose straight to a narrow hallway. The walls were white and adorned here and there with crucifixes or pictures of people in robes looking benign or—to Eve’s eye—sorrowful. Occasionally annoyed.
“You knew Father Flores,” Eve prompted.
“Very well, I think. You cook and clean for a man, you come to know who he is.”
“Who was he?”
Rosa paused outside a door, sighed. “A man of faith, and humor. He enjoyed sports, watching them, playing them. He had . . . energy,” she decided. “And put much of that into the youth center.”
“How did he get along with his housemates? The other priests,” Eve explained when Rosa looked blank.
“Very well. There was respect between him and Father López, and I’d say they were friendly. Easy with each other, if you understand.”
“Yeah.”
“He was friendlier, well, closer, you know, with Father Freeman—they had more in common, I’d say, outside the church. Sports. He and Father Freeman would argue about sports, as men do. Go to games together. They ran together most mornings, and often played ball at the center.”
Rosa sighed again. “Father López is contacting Father Freeman now, to tell him. It’s very hard.”
“And Flores’s family?”
“He had none. He would say the church was his family. I believe his parents died when he was a boy.” She opened the door. “He never had calls or letters from family, as Fathers López and Freeman often do.”
“What about other calls, other letters?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Who was he connected to? Friends, teachers, old schoolmates.”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Her brows drew together. “He had many friends in the parish, of course, but if you mean from outside, or from before, I don’t know.”
“Did you notice anything off—in his mood, his routine, recently?”
“No, nothing.” Rosa shook her head. “I came in to fix breakfast for him and Father López this morning, before the funeral. He was very kind.”
“What time did you get here?”
“Ah . . . about six-thirty, a few minutes later than that.”
“Was anyone else here?”
“No. I let myself in. I have a key, though. As usual, Father López forgot to lock up. The fathers came back from Mass shortly after, and I gave them breakfast. We all talked about the service, then Father Flores went into the office to work on his sermon.”
She pressed her fingertips to her lips. “How could this have happened?”
“We’ll find out. Thank you,” Eve said by way of dismissal, then stepped into the room.
It held a narrow bed, a small dresser and mirror, a night table, a desk. No house ’link, she noted, no computer. The bed looked to be neatly made, and over its head a picture of Christ on the cross hung next to a crucifix. Seemed like overkill to Eve
.
There were no personal photographs in evidence, no loose credits scattered over the dresser. She saw a Bible, a rosary of black and silver and a lamp on the bedside table, a comb and a pocket ’link on the dresser.
“That explains why he didn’t have a ’link on him,” Peabody commented. “I guess they don’t take them when they do a service.” As she turned, the sassy little flip at the ends of her dark hair bounced. “Well, I guess this won’t take long, considering he didn’t have a whole lot.”
“Take a look in the other rooms. Just a scan from the doorway. See if they’re the same as this.”
As Peabody went out, Eve opened a dresser drawer with her sealed hand. White boxers, white undershirts, white socks, black socks. She pawed through, found nothing else. Another drawer held T-shirts. White, black, gray—some with team logos emblazoned on the front.
“They’ve got more stuff,” Peabody announced. “Photographs, man junk.”
“Define ‘man junk,’ ” Eve said as she drew out the bottom drawer.
“Golf ball on a display tee, pile of discs, a pair of boxing gloves, that kind of thing.”
“Check the closet here.” Eve drew the bottom drawer all the way out, checked the bottom, the back.
“Priest’s suits, two sets with pants, and one of those dresses. A pair of black shoes that look worn, two pairs of high-tops, one pair looks shot. Shelf . . .” Peabody paused as she rummaged. “Cooler-weather gear. Two sweaters, two sweatshirts, one hooded sweat jacket—Knicks.”
After checking all the drawers, backs, bottoms, sides, Eve pulled the small dresser out from the wall, checked the back of the mirror.
With Peabody, she moved to the desk. It held a date book, a few memo cubes, a short stack of brochures on the youth center, the Yankees’ schedule, and another for the Knicks.
Eve checked the last entries in the date book. “Vigil for Ortiz at the funeral home last night. Yankees game Wednesday. Let’s see if anyone went with him. He’s scheduled for FHC—need to find out what that is—for a week from this coming Sunday at two. Got a few games and sessions at the youth center on here. Pre-C counseling. Need to get the meaning of that. Two of those—last Monday and Tuesday. Names of whoever he was counseling in here. We’ll run them down. The funeral’s on here. A teaching gig at St. Cristóbal’s Friday, a baptism a week from Saturday. All priestly, except for the Yankees.”
She bagged the date book. “Take a look at the ’link,” she told Peabody, then began on the little night table.
She flipped through the Bible, found a few small pictures of saints. In Hebrews, she read an underscored line: And thus, having had long patience, he got the promise. And in Proverbs: With me are riches and honor, enduring wealth and prosperity.
Interesting. She bagged the Bible for evidence. Inside the drawer were a couple more community flyers, and a mini-game player. She found a silver medal taped behind the drawer. “Well, well. Why does a priest tape a religious medal behind a drawer?”
Peabody stopped her own search. “What kind of medal?”
“It’s a woman, with the robe thing, hands folded, and it looks like she’s standing on a pillow or something with a little kid holding her up.”
“It’s probably the Virgin Mary, and the Baby Jesus. And, yeah, weird place for a medal.”
Carefully, Eve peeled the tape away, turned the freed medal over. “Lino, May La Virgen de Guadalupe watch over you—Mama. Dated May 12, 2031.”
“Rosa said she thought his parents died when he was a boy—and he’d have been about six at this date,” Peabody commented. “Maybe Lino’s a nickname, a term of affection in Spanish?”
“Maybe. Why tape it to the back of a drawer instead of wearing it, or keeping it in a drawer? Are priests allowed to wear jewelry?” Eve wondered.
“Probably not big honking rings or chains, but I’ve seen them wearing crosses and medals and stuff.” To get a closer look, Peabody squatted down. “Like that sort of thing.”
“Yeah. Yeah. So why is this hidden? You hide something so nobody sees it, and you hide it close when you want to look at it in private now and then. This mattered to him, whether it was his, a friend’s or relative’s, or he picked it up in a secondhand store, it mattered. It looks like silver,” she murmured, “but it’s not tarnished. You have to polish silver to keep it shiny.”
After another study, she bagged it. “Maybe we can trace it. What about the ’link?”
“Logged transmissions, in and out from Roberto Ortiz—that would be the late Mr. Ortiz’s oldest surviving son. A couple to and from the youth center, and the oldest last week to Father Freeman.”
“Okay, we’ll have a look and listen. Let’s call the sweepers in for a pass, then I want this room sealed.”
She thought of the two underlined passages, and wondered what riches and honor Flores waited for.
2
IT WAS A LONG WAY FROM SPANISH HARLEM TO the Lower West Side and Cop Central. Long enough to have Peabody do the initial run on Miguel Flores and recite the salients while Eve maneuvered through traffic for a large chunk of Manhattan’s length and breadth.
“Miguel Ernesto Flores,” Peabody read from her PPC. “Born February six, 2025 in Taos, New Mexico. Parents, Anna Santiago Flores and Constantine Flores, were both killed when their bodega was robbed, summer of 2027. The mother was seven months pregnant.”
“They get them?”
“They got them. Two guys, barely eighteen, and both serving life sentences. No parole. Flores was put in the system.”
“The inscription was dated ’31—and his mother had been dead four years by then. So who’s Mama?”
“Maybe foster mother?”
“Maybe.”
“Early education, State, but private Catholic high school and college.”
“Private?” Eve interrupted, and snarled when a Rapid Cab cut her off. “Takes dough.”
“Yeah. Maybe a scholarship? I’ll check on that. He entered the seminary straight out of college, spent several years working and living in Mexico. Held dual citizenship. Transferred to St. Cristóbal’s November of 2054. Huh, there’s a lag here, though. His last position was at a mission in Jarez until 2053, June.”
“So where was Flores for over a year, and what was he doing? He had to have a boss—like López. A pastor or whatever. Let’s find out. Any youthful high jinks of the criminal variety?”
“Nothing here, and no flag indicating a sealed record.”
“Private Catholic education’s gotta be pricey. Unless there was a scholarship, and it covered most of the ground, how did he afford it? Where’d the money come from? We’re going to need to peel some layers.”
Eve frowned as she skirted around a maxibus. “The vic had a wrist unit on him—cheap one—and just under forty dollars in his wallet. Who pays these guys? Do they get paid? He had a standard ID, no credit or debit cards, no driver’s license. A silver cross.”
“Maybe the Pope pays them.” Peabody’s square face turned thoughtful. “Not directly, but he’s the head guy, so maybe it comes from him. I mean they must get paid something. They’ve got to live—buy food, clothes, pay for transportation.”
“Under forty on him, no money in his room. We’ll check bank accounts.” Eve tapped her fingers on the wheel. “Let’s go by the morgue, see if Morris has established COD.”
“If it was poison, it doesn’t feel like self-termination. Plus,” Peabody added, “I know Catholics are way against that, so it doesn’t skew right for a priest to off himself.”
“Pretty harsh to do it in front of a church full of people at a funeral service,” Eve commented. “Or . . . ironic. But no, it doesn’t play. Wit statements are that he was moving right through the service, SOP. If you’re going to knock back some wine laced with poison, even if you’re dead—ha-ha—set on it, you’d show some nerves, some hesitation. A little moment of: Okay, here goes nothing. Whatever.”
“Maybe it wasn’t target specific. Maybe whoever laced the wine just
wanted to kill a priest. Like a religious vendetta.”
“It wasn’t in the wine for the morning service, and it was in—if it was—for the funeral. Maybe somebody snuck in, broke into the box-thing, laced the wine without knowing who’d be taking the first drink. But my vote is Flores was the target.”
But she’d hold her report in reserve until she talked to Morris.
Into the chilly, artificial air, death slipped and snuck—the god of all thieves. No amount of filtering, sealing or cleaning could quite banish the insidiously sweet and human smell. Used to it, Eve wound through the white, harshly lit corridors of the morgue—thought fleetingly about hitting Vending for a tube of Pepsi to kick up the caffeine level—and pushed open one of the doors of an autopsy room.
It surprised her to be immediately assaulted with the romantic perfume of roses. They stood, red as fresh blood, on one of the rolling tables used to hold the nasty tools of the trade performed there. Eve studied the small forest of them, and wondered if the naked corpse behind them appreciated their elegance.
Elegant, too, was the man who hummed along with the choral music drifting through the rose- and death-scented air. Chief Medical Examiner Morris wore black today, but there was nothing ghoulish or funereal in the sharply tailored suit. The lightning-bolt blue T-shirt—probably silk—kicked it up a notch, Eve supposed. He’d pinned one of the red rosebuds to his lapel, and wound red and blue cords through his long black ponytail.
The clear, protective cloak didn’t diminish the style, and when he turned his exotic eyes to her and smiled, Eve had to admit that kicked it up another notch.
“Nice flowers,” she commented.
“Aren’t they? A token from a friend. I decided to bring them in. They class up the place, don’t you think?”
“They’re mag.” Peabody walked over, took a sniff. “Man, there are like two dozen easy. Some token.”